Chapter Text
“Harry Potter and his stupid broom being allowed on the Quidditch team all because he’s the Boy Who Lived. Of course the rules should apply to everyone except him,” he complained for what felt like the hundredth time. Apparently, starting at Hogwarts, finally getting a wand, being sorted into Slytherin, upholding centuries of tradition, living in a castle full of ghosts, and even having a teacher suddenly die in his sleep were none of them interesting enough for Draco Malfoy. No, the most interesting thing that had happened to him in his entire first year was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who defeated the Dark Lord. And now, apparently, Draco’s sworn enemy.
A crack of lightning split the sky above them, thunder booming not far behind.
“Draco, I need to concentrate. If I fuck this up, I could become some horrid half-beast,” I snapped.
Draco grinned. “Or you could succeed and turn into a chicken. Just think, months of hard work and sneaking around only to find out your inner self is a barn animal.”
“I’ll make sure to pluck out your eyes if that’s true.” I shifted on my feet, clad in slippers, and glanced away. “You’re the one who decided to do such a beastly ritual,” he added with a theatrical sigh. “I mean, I know you can be… impetuous, but this is a bit much even for you. Only filthy, desperate wizards and witches would forsake their human form like this.”
“The Animagus transformation is misunderstood.” I spoke sharply. “People only spew nonsense about it being filthy and monstrous because they don’t want a powerful magic like this getting out of hand.” And besides, forsaking my human form is exactly what I want. I think to myself.
We fell into silence, staring at each other. Then Draco took a step back.
I huffed out an agitated breath, looking down at the potion bottle in my hands. Months of work, months of waiting were finally about to pay off. Soon I’d know if this would fix me. If it would give me relief from being consumed. If, even for a moment, I could stop looking like me. If I could finally shed this aching, awkward body that never seemed to fit, no matter how I adorned it.
I swallowed the potion in one gulp.
“Amato Animo Animato Animagus.” I whispered.
The effect was immediate. My body shook violently, as if I’d been thrown off a broom and hit the ground shredding my skin against the hard earth. My senses crashed over one another, overwhelming, and blinding. My ears were ringing and my vision became devoid of colour. I convulsed, gasping, squeezing my eyes shut until everything went still.
I laid there, panting for a long moment, my limbs tingling like the sensation of radio static.
“Well, it seems I was correct. You might as well be a chicken, wings and all.”
I opened my eyes and had to tilt my head back to see Draco looming over me, far too large. I tried to stand and stumbled, falling face first into the garden cobblestones. I looked around wildly and tried to move my arms, only to strain at the stretch, unfamiliar with the sensation of flexing wings.
“If I’m a fucking chicken I won’t be held accountable for my actions,” I growled, though it came out as a strange hissing yowl, like a kitten or a yappy dog. I tried to stand again, and this time I actually managed it, long nails scratching against the stone.
Draco quickly kneeled down beside me, breathless with excitement, holding up a mirror (where did he get it?). I stared, eyes fixed on my reflection.
Silver eyes stared back, mine, though considerably larger with eerie black sclera ringed with bold, dark circles like that of a raccoon mask. A black beak jutted from the center, half obscured by the raised feathers over my face. My body was covered in feathers, mottled tan, brown, and black, patterned like dry grass.
I was an owl.
A raw, inhuman sound tore out of me. I stumbled backward, tripping over my own talons and collapsing in a puff of feathers. Draco burst out laughing, his laughter so much louder than I was used to that it made my body tremble with the sound. “Well,” he said between laughs, “it seems I don’t have a sister anymore.” He reached down to pet me and I snapped at his hand on instinct- but something warm twisted inside me when I realized I’d actually done it. I wasn’t Aldura Druella Malfoy at that moment. I wasn’t a sister, or trapped in my roles as the only daughter of the great Malfoy family, the heiress to expectations that never fit.
For the first time in my life, I was free of the titles, free of the shape I hated.
For a moment, I was free to be something new.
–☆–
Stepping into Knockturn Alley, I could already hear Draco snickering behind me, saying I “fit right in” which as I looked around, I realized I did match the area to an eerie degree. My long black dress had loose, slightly flared sleeves with only a hint of decorative stitching at the cuffs. A few small buttons ran down the front, and the skirt fell neatly around my knees. It made me look as though I'm trying to bleed into the shadows. Draco had said I looked like a Dementor’s bride this morning at breakfast, the little cunt.
Before I could come up with a retort, our father, Lucius, was already dragging us ahead into a shop with a sign overhead that read: Borgin and Burkes.
The shop swallowed us whole. The lighting was dim and greenish, like swamp water trapped in glass. Shelves sunk under the weight of cursed objects, shrunken heads and dark artifacts sealed in dusty cases. The air smelled of metal, rot, and old, greedy magic.
Lucius glided forward as though the gloom couldn’t touch him. Draco stayed close to his side, excitement flickering across his expressive face. I lingered a step behind, the shadows tugging at my dress, snagging against the hem like they recognized me.
The owner appeared from behind the counter, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the till. “Mr. Malfoy… always a pleasure.” He seemed to purr.
Lucius smiled without warmth. “I’m sure.”
The man set the snake head of his cane against the counter and began pulling items from his robes, small, dangerous things wrapped in velvet and paper. Draco had whispered to me at breakfast that morning, “Father’s spring cleaning.”
I rolled my eyes as Draco elbowed me, clearly bored. Father had been tearing up the manor for weeks, throwing things away in a hurry to make it seem as though nothing deemed illegal by the Ministry was stored in our home. It irritated me endlessly, having Auror’s all summer poking around our home like they had a right to do so.
Draco huffed beside me, clearly still not over it. “This is all because of Potter.” he muttered, as if the name tasted sour. “Everything is always because of Potter. If he weren’t involved, the Ministry wouldn’t even bother us.”
I raised a brow. “You’re blaming Harry Potter for Father’s hoarding?”
“Yes,” Draco snapped immediately under his breath. “If Harry Potter can break every rule and get praised, then Father should be allowed to keep whatever he wants in the manor without Ministry dogs sniffing about. But no, Potter has to exist and ruin everything.”
“Draco.”
We both turned.
Lucius didn’t look angry, just… tired of hearing the same nonsensical chatter all summer. “Must you bring up that boy every time we leave the house?” he asked, smoothing a sleeve as though Draco’s rant had tarnished the very air around him.
Draco flushed pink. “I was only saying-”
“And you have said it,” Lucius cut in gently, but firmly. “Many times. Let it rest, it is becoming repetitive.”
Draco shut his mouth, mortified.
Lucius nodded once, satisfied, and returned to discussing cursed items with the shop owner.
I leaned toward Draco and whispered, teasing, “He’s not wrong.”
Draco shot me a wounded glare, but he kept quiet at least for the moment.
Lucius and the man at the counter slipped deeper into their discussion, their voices dropping to the low, smooth register adults always used when talking about things we ‘didn’t need to know’ which, of course, meant Draco and I immediately lost interest and drifted away.
Draco nudged me. “Come on. If Father’s going to talk forever, we might as well look around.”
I followed him between the towering shelves. The shop grew darker the farther we wandered, shadows thickening around the more dangerous objects. Dust hung in the air and caught in my throat. Jars full of preserved things floated on shelves we passed, their cloudy eyes following us.
Draco stopped in front of a cursed mask with metal teeth. “Bet this thing bites.”
“It probably does,” I muttered, tugging him away before he could touch it. “Father just told you to stop poking things.”
“I wasn’t going to poke it,” Draco lied immediately.
He wandered on anyway, masquerading innocence, and I trailed behind him in case anything actually did try to bite him which, knowing Knockturn, was likely. Draco paused at the next display, his eyes lighting up in that troublemaking way of his.
“Now this is interesting.”
I stepped up beside him, immediately wary. A severed, withered hand sat propped on a velvet cushion inside a glass case. Its fingers were curled in a half-clenched grasp, frozen mid-reach. Dark magic clung to it like oil.
A small card beneath it read:
HAND OF GLORY
Gives light only to the holder.
Draco grinned, delighted. “Imagine sneaking around the castle with this. Everyone else would be stumbling blind while I walked around like it’s midday.”
“You barely get away with sneaking around now.” I said. “You’d probably lose a hand trying to make it work.”
“Worth it,” he said immediately, pressing closer to the case. “This is proper magic.”
“Father would never let you bring that home.”
“He doesn’t have to know about it,” Draco replied breezily, glancing away. “Besides… it would look brilliant in my room.”
“It would horrify mother.”
His grin widened. “Exactly.”
Before I could drag him away from the cursed hand like the irresponsible little magpie he was, a faint thud echoed from deeper in the shop, making the two of us freeze.
Draco paused, but barely took note of it, too fascinated by the Hand of Glory.
And whatever made that sound was hiding just out of sight.
I temporarily abandoned my brother and skirted around a stack of old spellbooks, leaning in and trying to catch the sound again. There was a breath too soft to be the shop’s usual creaks and moans. A presence leading to the cracked open door of a wardrobe… something was hiding. I grinned, ecstatic.
I took another quiet, careful step—
“Aldura. Draco.”
Father’s voice cut through the gloom smooth, controlled, and entirely final.
I flinched, losing the thread of where the sound had come from. Before I could edge closer to the cabinet, Lucius called again, sharper this time.
“Now.”
I shot the wardrobe one last glance. The air had gone still again, as if whatever was hiding inside had held their breath.
Draco sighed dramatically behind me. “Come on, Aldura, before he gets annoyed.”
He grabbed my sleeve to tug me along, and I had no choice but to follow him back toward the counter. Lucius was already gathering the last of his parcels from Borgin & Burks, his expression smoothed into practiced politeness.
I looked over my shoulder as we left the aisle, eyes narrowing at the shadowed cabinet. Something was in there. I was sure of it.
But Lucius was already sweeping toward the door with Draco hurrying after him, chattering about the Hand of Glory.
–☆–
I was helping Draco look for his schoolbooks at Flourish and Blots when a loud shout cut through the crowded book shop. Some celebrity that our mother enjoyed was apparently making an appearance, though she hadn’t deigned to accompany us—rather spending her time at tea with Lady Nott.
“Harry Potter!?”
Draco and I turned at the same time to see Gilderoy Lockhart, the man whose books I currently had in my arms. The glaringly cheery man pulled a short, dark haired boy to the front of the store, revealing the Boy Who Lived himself.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Gilderoy Lockhart called loudly, waving for silence, his obnoxiously oversized teeth gleaming. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!”
The crowd leaned in.
“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography —”
He paused dramatically.
“— which I shall be happy to present to him now, free of charge!”
The crowd erupted into applause.
“He had no idea,” Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the edge of his nose, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”
Draco immediately launched into his “I hate Harry Potter” speech, the same one I’d heard all summer. Every day. Many times.
Harry Potter looked smaller in person than I’d imagined, all skin and bones and oversized clothes. I couldn’t believe this was the boy Draco couldn’t shut up about.
Then, suddenly, an idea came to me, making me grin.
Without a word to Draco, I practically skipped toward the Boy-Hero, bending down slightly to meet his spectacles.
“Oh- Hello!” I grinned, my hands grazing over the spines of the books I pretended to browse. “I-I can’t believe it… it’s really you. Harry Potter! Oh Merlin, I’ve heard so much about you!”
Harry seemed to shrink back uncomfortably before I could take another step toward him. A sharp tug at my arm yanked me backwards, almost causing me to trip over my slim heeled shoes.
Draco dragged me by the wrist a few steps behind a shelf filled to bursting with fresh printed tomes. The boy’s face was flushed, his eyes wide, and his voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
“Stop! Stop that!” he hissed, pressing a finger against my chest before quickly pulling back, put off by the squish of my bust.
I blinked at him innocently. “Uh… why?”
“Because… because you cannot, you're going to make a scene! You’re an embarrassment to the Malfoy name! Just… just behave!”
I tilted my head, trying not to grin. “Behave? Oh, Draco… is that what you’re worried about?”
His face went red, and he tightened his grip on my arm. “I’m serious! Just… be normal!”
I bit back a grin and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “This is payback for all the chatter this summer.”
Draco released his grip on my arm, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Payback? What are you even—”
I ignored him and stepped back around the bookshelf, my attention toward Potter, who was still being accosted by the press and onlookers. “Mister Potter,” I said cheerfully, pressing through the crowd. “Draco wouldn’t shut up about you this summer! I’m so glad to see he’s made a friend at Hogwarts. I was so worried about him, but I couldn’t do anything since I was all the way over at Durmstrang for school.”
Draco looked absolutely horrified and he yanked me back again. Damn this twelve year old and his new strength. His voice was sharp and dangerous. “Enough! That’s enough!” He hissed, spinning on me. Then, without warning, he stormed a few steps toward Harry, pointing a finger at him.
“My sister says nothing but lies.” He snapped, his usual composure completely gone. “If you think I’m going to let anyone—anyone listen to this nonsense about me—like I’d ever enjoy the company of you—you’ve got another thing coming!”
I blinked, trying not to grin, as Draco leaned closer to the Boy Who Lived, his voice dripping with fury. “And while we’re at it… my sister? She’s completely insane! Absolutely mad. And don’t even think for a second that I had anything to do with her running off to—” He jabbed a finger at me, his glare cutting daggers. “—this!”
Harry blinked, confused, fumbling with his books. “Uh… I… don’t—”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, his voice rising. “You may be ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ but honestly? You’re a pest. Small, annoying, and absolutely hopeless at keeping yourself out of trouble. And now you’ve got my sister making me look like a fool in front of everyone!”
I suppressed a laugh, hovering just behind him, enjoying the spectacle. Draco spun toward me, his hands trembling. “And you! Aldura! You are completely impossible! I swear, I’ll hex you where you stand for dragging me into this madness!”
I grinned sweetly, pressing a finger to my lips. “Oh, Draco… it’s kind of fun seeing you get all… fiery.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, veins bulging in his neck. “Fun? You think humiliating your own brother in front of Potter is fun? I’ll—ugh! I can’t even—”
Harry shifted awkwardly, glancing between us like he’d rather be anywhere else. Draco flared his nostrils, muttering under his breath. “Honestly, I should curse both of you where you stand…”
A hand suddenly came down, clasping both my shoulder and Draco’s. We spun around, startled, only to find our father standing there, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief.
“Honestly,” Lucius Malfoy said, voice low and sharp. “must you two behave like children in public?”
Before either of us could answer, Father’s attention slid past us.
“…Harry Potter.”
Father shifted his cane to his other arm and extended a hand with elegant precision. “Lucius Malfoy,” he introduced himself smoothly. “We meet at last.”
Harry didn’t respond, his expression turning stony. Lucius elegantly took his hand away and turned to look at the lingering crowd behind Harry, and that’s when I noticed the small army of redheads standing there behind the shorter boy.
“Well, well, well, Arthur Weasley.” Father drawled, his voice getting even colder.
“Lucius.” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear.” Father continued, “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?” He reached into a cauldron a young ginger girl was holding and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.
“Obviously not.” Father said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizardkind if they don’t even pay you well for it?”
“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of a wizard, Malfoy.” Mr Weasley scowled.
“Clearly.” said Father, his pale eyes straying to two people in the back who were watching apprehensively. Muggles “The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower.”
There was a thud — loud, sudden.
The young ginger girl’s cauldron went flying as Mr. Weasley launched himself at Father, slamming him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks crashed down on all of them in a chaotic cascade.
There was a roar of, “Get him, Dad!” from one of the redheaded boys.
Mrs. Weasley shrieked, “No, Arthur, NO!”
The crowd surged backward in panic, jostling and knocking over even more shelves.
“Gentlemen, please — please!” the assistant cried desperately.
And then, louder than all of them—
“Break it up, there! Break it up, gents — break it up!”
A shout rose above the chaos, deep and commanding.
The behemoth of a man strode toward us, towering over everyone in the entire bookstore by a generous margin. In one swift motion effortless, like separating quarrelsome kittens he pulled Mr. Weasley and Father apart.
Mr. Weasley was panting, a cut blooming on his lip. Father looked no better; an Encyclopedia of Toadstools had caught him squarely in the eye. He was still clutching the ginger girl’s battered old Transfiguration book, his knuckles white around the spine.
With icy precision, he thrust the book toward her, his eyes glittering with malice.
“Here, girl. Take your book. It’s the best your father can give you—”
He didn’t finish. He simply turned sharply on his heel and began stalking toward the exit, fury tightening every line of his posture.
Draco and I exchanged wide, wild-eyed looks, expressions saying: Let’s move before this gets worse.
Without another word, we hurried after him.
–☆–
“Mother, Father got into a fistfight with a man at a bookshop today!”
Our mother, Narcissa, looked up in bewilderment from the book she had been reading and moved toward me with her usual effortless elegance, the kind that made her look as though she could glide through any situation.
“Father was defending himself from that ghastly Weasley family.” Draco added from behind me, his arms crossed.
“Sure, if you count insulting a man’s entire family to his face as defending.” I huffed.
Mother took a deep breath and turned to us with a sickeningly sweet smile.
“Oh, did he now? Well, I must say, it seems I was quite incorrect in thinking your shopping trip was going to be dull today. Now, my little dragon, why don’t you fetch your father so I can be told this riveting tale that seems to have happened today?”
She ruffled Draco’s hair affectionately. He huffed a little, but nodded and left to go find Father.
“It seems you’ve inherited that short temper from your father.” She sighed. “Oh, what shall I do with this family? A husband who cannot walk into a bookshop without causing a scene, and a daughter who must be sent across the country for school because she terrorizes the children she should be playing nicely with.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“Those children deserved it. And father just doesn’t know when not to insult the people around him.”
“Your father has a very complicated relationship with the Weasleys,” Mother replied smoothly, “though I cannot say it is entirely undeserved, considering the way that family behaves. Still, I shall remind him not to stoop to such unseemly behavior.”
She softened then, brushing a hand through my hair.
“Now, my little star, don’t worry about your father. It is a big moment for you. Your fifth year at Durmstrang starts in only a few days. It always saddens me to have one of my children so far away. We must go to that lovely little tea place tomorrow just us ladies and talk. What shall I do when you and Draco aren’t home to cause such a ruckus?”
She kissed the top of my head.
I tried to hide the unease twisting in my stomach. “Tea together” usually meant Mother would lecture me about behaving like a proper pure-blood lady and what would be expected of me in the future. I hated being reminded of what I was supposed to be. The more I was reminded, the more I seemed to hate it.
Just then, Father walked into the room, guilt written all over his face.
I couldn’t help but smile, at least he would be the one getting lectured about how to behave today.
–☆–
The first thing I feel is the ice‑cold water—it hits me so hard my whole body goes rigid. Then come the hands. Clawing at me, tearing into my skin, dragging across flesh like they’re trying to peel me apart. The pain is blinding. I try to scream, but my mouth fills instantly with freezing water, spilling into my lungs until all I can do is choke on it, thrashing in panic.
My eyes snap wide in the murky blue around me. The water is dark and thick, clouds of red unfurling from my body like drifting ink. Every nerve in me is on fire, burning against the cold that presses in from every direction. And it’s getting darker—deeper—as the hands pull me down, dragging me through the crushing silence below.
I bolt upright in bed.
My arms swing wildly before I even register where I am, like I’m still fighting something in the dark. My lungs heave, desperate and raw, and I end up clutching the blankets, folding myself forward as my arms wrap tight around my ribs. I force myself to breathe—slowly, painfully—inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. Over and over, until the world stops spinning.
It takes a moment before I can see clearly.
My pajamas cling to me, damp with sweat. The air in my room feels too cold, too still. On the wall across from me, my Weird Sister poster— the one I bullied Father into buying—stares back with smug certainty, like the lead singer knows something. The walls in my room are old stone, cold and pale, but they’re mostly hidden behind things I stuck up torn posters, paper charms, crooked drawings done in black ink. Some are pictures of wild creatures, others are symbols I copied from books I wasn’t supposed to read.
I wasn’t drowning.
I was safe in bed, miles away from any water. The realization hits slowly, like surfacing too fast from a deep dive, and then I feel the tears slipping down my cheeks. I swipe them away with the sleeve of my pajamas, irritated with myself. It’s stupid to cry over this—especially when it isn’t the first time. Not even close.
Twelve times now. Since I was nine.
And I still don’t know if it’s a dream… or a memory that doesn’t belong to me. Or something else entirely. Something real. Something old. Dreams aren’t supposed to feel like memories, and memories aren’t supposed to feel like wounds—fresh ones—still bleeding.
What if I wasn’t dreaming at all?
What if I was remembering someone else’s death?
The thought sends a shudder racing through me. I look down at my arms as if expecting to still see the marks—hands clutching, tearing, dragging me under. Expecting to see the skin split open, raw and bleeding, like in the water.
But my skin is smooth.
Whole.
Safe.
Except… I don’t feel safe.
My bed is a wreck, blankets twisted and half hanging off the edge like I tried to claw my way out of them. I ease my legs over the side, careful and shaky, like if I move too fast the world will tilt and I’ll plunge right back into that suffocating dark.
The floor is cold beneath my feet. Cold, but real. Solid. Not water.
I curl my toes into the carpet just to prove it to myself, grounding myself in the softness, the stillness, the now.
The manor is silent.
Unnaturally silent.
It presses in on me from all directions—heavy, watchful, like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
It’s not the calm kind of quiet. It’s the heavy kind, the kind that crawls under your skin and fills your head with things you don’t want to think about. Every little sound feels too loud, my own breathing, the faint creak of the old manor shifting, the soft thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
I hate the silence.
It makes the dream feel closer, like if I stand still for too long, I’ll start hearing the water again. The rushing. The desperate echo of something trying to breathe.
The dark corners of my room feel like they’re watching me.
Waiting.
The walls feel too close, like the room is shrinking, tightening around me like a fist.
I can’t stay here.
Not in this silence.
Not with my thoughts this loud.
I take a slow, shaky breath and step toward the door, each footfall muffled by the carpet but still too loud in my ears. I need to hear any sound. A voice. Footsteps. Something that proves I’m not trapped underwater again.
Because if I stay in this silence any longer, I’m scared I’ll start believing I never left the water at all.
I move toward the door slowly, every step heavy, like the air itself is thick. My hand trembles when I wrap my fingers around the cold handle.
It clicks softly as I open it.
The hallway is darker than my room, the shadows stretching long and thin along the walls. The old manor makes quiet sounds, tiny groans and cracks like it’s breathing in its sleep. That somehow makes everything worse.
I step out into the hallway.
The floorboards creak under my weight, and I freeze. I stand there, heart racing, listening. Waiting, half expecting the figure of some drowned person to come out and beg me to save them.
But nothing comes. Just silence again.
Draco’s room is at the end of the hall. It feels farther away than it should be. Like the hall is longer in the dark. Like it’s stretching just to make me walk through it.
I move slowly, hugging my arms around myself.
Draco’s door is closed,I hesitate for only a second before slowly pushing it open.
His room feels… different.
The air is warmer, softer, like it belongs to a place that has never been touched by visions of death like mine. Moonlight slips in through a tall window where pale curtains hang, embroidered with tiny silver stars. The walls are painted a deep midnight blue, and tiny glowing markings of constellations scatter across the ceiling.
The glowing markings scattered across the ceiling aren’t just markings. They move. Tiny points of soft light slowly drift across the dark blue paint, forming and breaking apart into constellations that don’t exist in any real sky. Silver lines connect them like threads of silk, weaving pictures of dragons, towers, and elegant castles and manors.
I step further into the room and the door closes softly behind me. I look over to see Draco is asleep in his bed.
Draco’s bed is huge, covered in dark green blankets of expensive fibers.
I don’t stop to worry.
I cross the room quickly and sit on the edge, the mattress dipping under my weight. He shifts a little but doesn’t wake.
I slide under the covers.
The fabric brushes against my skin as I crawl closer to him, curling into my side. My hands shake when I grab lightly onto his sleeve. I don’t pull. I just hold.
He stirs, frowns, then relaxes.
His arm moves on its own and falls around my shoulders.
My breath catches, then slowly evens out.
I press my forehead against his arm and shut my eyes. My body finally stops shaking.
I don’t think about drowning.
I don’t think about hands.
I just breathe.
And for the first time since waking up, my chest doesn’t hurt like it’s full of water.
–☆–
The Durmstrang fountain roars behind her.
Dark stone dragons spit water into the wide marble basin, the spray catching the morning light. Mist curls through the air, cold and sharp, coating everything in a thin shimmer.
And there she is.
Standing right at the edge of the fountain like she owns the place.
Elena.
Her long blonde hair shines brighter than the water spray, shimmering like it’s threaded with sunlight shining in a way that doesn’t look normal because it isn’t. Veela blood. Of course. The air around her looks warmer somehow, faint heat flickering around her hands.
She’s waiting.
For me.
My chest tightens.
I don’t think.
I just ran.
My boots hit the stone hard as I break into a sprint, dodging past students and trunks and surprise shouts. I don’t care if I look stupid. I don’t care if people stare.
I see her eyes widen.
“El—!” I start, but I don’t finish the word.
I crashed into her.
My arms wrap around her waist and I hug her as tight as I can, burying my face into her shoulder. She smells like smoke and winter wind and something warm and familiar.
For half a second she freezes.
Then her arms come around me just as tightly.
“You’re going to knock me into the fountain,” she laughs, breathless and surprised she look at me with he warm umber eyes look at me in amusement.
“I missed you,” I mumble into her coat, my voice coming out rougher than I meant.
Her fire flickers brighter around her fingers, reacting to her emotions.
“I know,” she says softly. “I missed you too.”
The dragons keep roaring.
The water keeps crashing.
But right there, in her arms…
I finally feel like my year has started right.
Elena and I have been unlikely friends since first year. I was first introduced to her and learned her mother was a Veela, and I got so excited, only to immediately lose that excitement when I found out her father was Muggle-born. I told her how disappointing that was and called her father names.
She punched me in the face.
Naturally, I punched her right back.
We both ended up in the hospital wing.
But when Elena realized our parents were being called and saw how terrified I was of the consequences she told everyone she started the fight.
I still think about that sometimes.
And the way she lied for me—me, of all people.
Someone I’d been raised to believe had dirty blood because of her father.
Someone I’d once been ashamed to be seen with.
Someone who should have been my enemy…
but chose to protect me anyway.
“You look taller,” she says. Snapping me out off that memory.
“You look like you could set the school on fire,” I replied without thinking.
She laughs, and a tiny spark flickers over her knuckles before disappearing.
“How was your summer” she asks, smiling at me.
I shove my hands in my pockets, “It was… fine,” I say, though my mind is still half on the chaos at home. “Draco was… well, Draco. Annoying as ever. Practically living in my room, talking nonstop about Hogwarts and the people he met there, especially one in particular. And, of course, Mother and Father kept drilling into me about the importance of being a Malfoy, like I haven’t heard it a thousand times already.”
I stop talking.
My fingers curl tighter in my pockets, knuckles going white. Elena’s smile fades a little when she notices the shift.
“…You okay?” she asks softly.
I glance around the courtyard. Too many people. Too many ears.
“Not here,” I murmur. “Can we… walk?”
She nods immediately, turning without question. We drift toward the edge of the fountain, behind one of the frozen stone pillars where the noise of other students dulls into a low hum.
For a moment I say nothing. I just stare at the frostbitten ground.
Then, very quietly, I say, “I did something over the summer.”
Her head tilts. “Illegal something… or illegal something?”
A breath of weak laughter escapes me. “The second one.”
Her expression sharpens, serious now. Protective.
“I learned the Animagus ritual.”
That lands.
Her eyes widened, just a fraction. “You’re… joking.”
My voice drops lower. “It worked.”
Silence stretches between us, fragile as glass.
“You… transformed?” she whispers.
I nod.
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t pity. Doesn’t judge.
Good.
“Let’s just say both of us are feathery in a way,” I say, smirking, watching her reaction.
Elena grins wickedly. “I think I can see that,” she says, one hand flicking a stray lock of shimmering blonde hair behind her ear. Her Veela glow catches the sun, making her look even more impossible than usual. “Honestly… my summer wasn’t all magical.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”
She leans closer “Some boys think that just because I exist, they get to follow me around, compliment me nonstop, and flirt like I asked for it.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate that for you. Every year it’s the same. And I swear, if one of them tries anything this year, I’m castrating them myself.”
“Who’s getting castrated?”
We both glance around and there’s Laszlo Gurin, leaning casually against the fountain edge. Brown hair tousled, bright blue eyes sparkling with amusement.
He grins at us. “Sounds like I walked in on some serious plotting,” he says. Then his grin turns sly. “Don’t worry, I’ll happily deal with any unwanted men for you two. Consider me your personal… Well, bodyguard."
“Won’t you be too busy dealing with your final year?” I tease. “Already in seventh year — I can’t believe it. We’ll be rid of you soon, at last.”
“Oh, you’ll never get rid of me. Us purebloods are too outnumbered for that to happen,” he smirks at me.
Elena bursts out laughing, stepping closer. “Oh, don’t think you get to feel smug, Laszlo. You should’ve seen what she got up to this summer. Honestly, I’m shocked she didn’t start a coup in the Ministry or transform into some kind of monster!”
“Well, our Aldura is more monster than girl to begin with,” Laszlo says, grinning.
I freeze. More monster than girl… The words strike me differently this time. Not because I want to be a monster but because finally, someone sees that I don’t belong in the role I’ve been forced into. The role everyone insists is “girl.”
It’s a feeling I’ve carried quietly for years, trapped beneath expectations, clothing, and the constant pressure to perform a version of myself that feels wrong. I’ve always felt confined, limited by a body and a life that wasn’t mine, but hearing it said aloud makes that old ache pulse stronger, sharper, undeniable.
I don’t want to be a girl. Not the one the world expects. Not the one my family has decided I must be. I want… something else, something I haven’t put into words yet.
Elena notices the subtle change in my expression and smirks knowingly. Laszlo laughs, proud of his joke, completely unaware of the storm it has stirred inside me.
The words echo in my mind, louder and clearer than ever: not a girl. Not the role I’ve been trapped in.
And even though I don’t fully understand what lies ahead, that small crack in the mask, the faint glimpse that I might be someone else feels like I’m uncovering all the questions I’ve been ignoring, pushing away, and I might not like every answer I find.